


Fly or Die

by remaya



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Cedric Diggory is A Well-Meaning Knight, Crack Treated Seriously, Dragon Tom Riddle | Voldemort, M/M, Mute Harry Potter, Possessive Tom Riddle, Precious Harry Potter, but not completely accurate, is that really a bad thing, that’s becoming my signature tag whoops, there’s magic for one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2020-11-09 10:31:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20851991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remaya/pseuds/remaya
Summary: Harry Potter: shunned, sheltered prince by day; gallant, reckless hero by night. Through a series of misunderstandings, Harry is hired to rescue himself— from the dragon known only as “Flight of Death.”Harry is intrigued. And, well, he can’t exactly complete his job without having been captured in the first place...Or: the one where Tom struggles to preserve a living thing in his hoard, Cedric is well-meaning but often mistaken, and Harry Potter has layers.





	1. The Prince

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags and enjoy! :D
> 
> ((Also: Harry doesn’t have glasses. Because it’s a medieval AU, and I can’t deal with my bb Harry being blind on top of mute.))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super awesome, pretty moodboard made by the lovely [lycxris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lycxris/pseuds/Lycxris) <3

1 The Prince

**Hp Hp Hp**

There’s a bedtime story every child knows. 

A long time ago, there lived the dragon Grindelwald. No images of it remain, having all been destroyed in the Purge, but it’s always described as a terrible, ugly thing, whose pinky claw could skewer a horse. It had brought ruin to the kingdom: burning crops, killing livestock, destroying homes. 

Grindelwald’s rampage knew no end— until Dumbledore. Dumbledore is said to be one of the only beings who still remember the Dark Days. He’d defeated Grindelwald after an epic battle, the details of which change with every retelling. 

It was magic that made Grindelwald so horrible. Magic made it cruel, evil. So with the backing of the court, magic was banned, magical beings were exiled, and all magical materials were Purged. Breaking the Ban means an execution the next day. Harry always looks away. The deaths are often messy.

But they’re for the good of the kingdom. Necessary, because the Seer Trelawney warns that if magic ever returns, a dragon will return with it. Not Grindelwald. A new one: _ Voldemort_.

Ever since Seer Trelawney’s dramatic prediction in the middle of court, Voldemort, which lives just north of the border, has grown into the kingdom’s monster under the bed. It keeps an infamous hoard that bards refer to as “It-That-Must-Not-Be-Named,” for fear of incurring the beast’s wrath. Harry had never known of it until he’d snuck out for the fourth time, and his new friends Ron and Hermione told him.

“You mean your mum’s never threatened you with, I don’t know, ‘Voldemort punishes naughty children who don’t eat their veggies?” Ron had asked him incredulously.

“You need to get out more, Harry,” Hermione had frowned.

Harry doubts that a dragon as powerful as Voldemort would care about something so trivial as whether he eats his veggies. And anyway, his mother only ever avoids him or treats him like glass. The other story everybody knows is how the prince is touched in the head. They say it was an assassin, how Harry Potter got his lighting-bolt scar and became dumb— both in the stupid way, and in the can’t speak kind of way. Everybody knows that’s why Lily Potter is pregnant again. The royal family is trying for a baby who will be the actual heir, the crown prince or princess, because _ Harry Potter _ certainly couldn’t carry the responsibilities of an entire kingdom.

Harry used to mind more. Back when his guards weren’t kind to him, treating him as either a block of wood or a conveniently mute stress reliever— back then, he cried more than he likes to admit. Fortunately, the court physician, Madame Pomphrey, had found out, and after a trip to Snape’s to receive vial after vial of potions to fade the scars, Harry’s guard rotation had changed. 

(_It was too late_, whispers an insidious part of Harry, when he wakes up gasping from night terrors. Harry pushes the bad thoughts away. It wasn’t anybody’s fault but his.)

The head of Harry’s new guard interrupts his musings. “Prince Harry, are you alright? Training’s over— we’re heading back to the castle.” A grin like sunshine, and a voice like heaven: Cedric Diggory. The rare, good sort of person. 

Harry cannot help but smile softly in return. As always, he avoids the offered hand and stands from the bench himself; Cedric isn’t deterred by the rejection, takes his small response as if he had beamed. Even so, Harry feels a twinge of guilt. 

It’s not that he’s so traumatized by his old guard that he can’t touch anybody anymore, though he hasn’t touched much since. It’s just that since he started sneaking out regularly, he’d realized that it’s easier to hide his new scars and muscles and calluses when he doesn’t have any skin to skin contact. Cedric did comment on his new grace before, giving him a near heart attack; luckily Cedric attributed it to his new circumstances and not anything nefarious.

Not that what he sneaks out to do is nefarious. On the contrary— he’s made a name for himself: ‘the Chosen One,’ for how shittily good his luck is. He likes what he does, and as he wouldn’t really be missed in the castle, it’s given him a purpose. A good one. It’s worth a small loss of sleep and the hassle of hiding injuries. 

“Prince Harry,” calls Cedric, waiting patiently for him at the gates. Harry huffs and rushes to catch up.

“A bit slow, eh?” a new recruit to the knights snickers with his friends. He’s silenced by Cedric’s glare, yet the damage is done. Harry shrinks into himself.

“Malfoy!” barks Cedric, and Malfoy nearly drops the extra sword he’s carrying. “Stable duty with me tonight!” 

Malfoy waits until Cedric strides forward to mutter, “My father will hear about this.”

“_And the rest of the week!_” Cedric yells over his shoulder. “Hey, Harry,” he says, gently, “I’m here, right? You don’t let them walk all over you, now.”

Harry remains hunched over, hiding his clenched fists and his anger. Sometimes he wants to shout to the world _ I AM THE CHOSEN ONE_. He knows better, though. 

Cedric reaches out reassuringly; Harry flinches back. This time Cedric looks hurt.

Harry keeps his limbs close, turns his face to the ground, and trots ahead.

The castle keep, Hogwarts, is beautiful, but Harry doesn’t spare it a glance today. He heads straight for his room and locks his guards out.

When dinner time comes, he emerges guiltily, peeking around the door. Fred startles from where he’s keeping watch.

“Harry, mate?” Fred questions, uncharacteristically tentative, then unfolds his lanky legs to stand. “Oh, no, kiddo, don’t cry—”

Harry swipes at his tears, frustrated, and shakes his head.

“Cedric’s not mad at you, really, I’m only replacing his shift for this one time, he’s on stable—“

Harry doesn't hear the rest. He doesn’t want to hear the rest of how terrible he’s been towards Cedric, sunshine Cedric who only meant to help. He retreats. Several hours later, Cedric’s distinctive knock sounds through his room; Harry hides under the thick blankets so he can’t make out Cedric’s muffled voice.

Rain starts to patter against the roof, and the night turns stormy. It agrees with Harry’s mood. After a while of feeling generally angry and remorseful, Harry decides to go out despite the rumbling thunder. Maybe he’ll feel better after helping in the tavern, meeting his friends, seeing how old Alastor Moody’s doing. He hopes a job turns up; the Chosen One is generally in high demand, so it’s likely. 

Energized, Harry rolls off the side of the bed. He’s still dressed, so he throws on his waterproof cloak, grabs his belt (which holds his coin and his daggers), tugs on his boots, and he’s ready. He opens the window and shimmies out, swiftly scales the wall and jogs towards the edge of the castle grounds.

In his haste, he doesn’t close the window. He doesn’t look back, either, to see a bolt of lightning strike his windowsill and miraculously spark a fire on the wood that sweeps quickly into his room. The hidden jar of oil for his knives explodes and fuels the flames; that sound alerts Cedric, who’d been on watch. Fortuitously or not, Cedric is delayed by the locked door, and Harry gets away, ignorant and unnoticed.

By the time Harry gets to the tavern, the city alarms have sounded. He jostles his way through the crowd and prods Hermione on the shoulder.

Hermione sees his question. “There was just an announcement,” she shouts to be heard over the turmoil and gossip. “The prince has been kidnapped by Voldemort!”

Harry has no idea what’s going on, but surely he would know if he himself was captured?

“The guards found his room on fire, no body, and they say only a dragon could light a fire in the rain!” continues Hermione.

“It’s bonkers, yeah?” Ron grins. “There’s no way the dragon would come all the way here for a dumb prince.”

Harry doesn’t know whether to feel offended or relieved. 

“Ron! That’s awful— the prince is missing, show some tact!”

“I call it like I see it, Hermione!” Ron taps the side of his nose. “There’s nothing we could do, anyway. A bloody dragon? Leave it to the knights, I say.” 

Harry giggles silently, then points to the backrooms. He can set the palace straight tomorrow when he turns up safe.

“Good idea, mate,” Ron says. He and Hermione part the crowd for Harry, though it’s not really needed. Harry may be short, but he’s recognizable by his cloak, his hood, his gloves. In the city, as the Chosen One, he commands respect. Harry both fears and craves it. At least his famed aversion to physical contact makes his life easier. 

The three find relief from the noise and Alastor Moody, the barkeep. He protects a soft heart beneath his gruff demeanor; he hadn’t had any reason to train Harry, but he did when Harry begged.

“Constant vigilance,” greets Moody.

Ron swipes his flask and takes a sniff. “Must taste like piss,” he declares. 

“How many times do I have to tell you it’s _ bad for you_,” says Hermione, plucking the flask out of Ron’s grip. “Here, Harry, hold this. Don’t let their grubby hands on it.” 

Harry takes a tentative whiff of it, tuning out the familiar banter as Hermione gets on Moody’s case for drinking alcohol. It does smell like piss. He’ll never understand how people like Moody need it every day.

Neville Longbottom rushes in, bringing with him controlled chaos. “Hi Moody, Harry, Hermione, Ron,” he says hurriedly, unfailingly polite, then rushes back out with a sizable amount of mugs. 

“New group arrived, must be,” says Hermione into the lull of silence.

“Yeah,” says Ron. Harry soaks in their companionship. He _ is _ feeling better. Once he finds a job, he can leave. Tomorrow, he'll apologize to Cedric— and Fred. And George, for upsetting Fred. He stands to get a quill and paper from the corner of the backroom.

The door slams open again. 

This time, a deep voice that is certainly not Neville’s speaks. “Where is the Chosen One?”

Harry raises his head. At first, he thinks it’s Fred or George, and then he thinks he’s seeing an older version of Ron. The red hair throws him off.

“Charlie!” Ron exclaims.

“Little brother,” says Charlie, staying serious. “I’m looking for the Chosen One.”

“What for?” Ron asks suspiciously. Loyal to the end. 

Charlie clears his throat. “The King has a job for her.”

“Him,” Ron corrects, unfazed by the King’s namedrop. “He’s small, it’s an easy mistake. Hey, what job?”

“The dragon, Voldemort—“

Hermione slams her palms on the table. “Absolutely not.” 

Charlie’s brows furrow. “But the prince—“

“Abso-bloody-lutely _ not. _”

“Doesn’t the King have knights for this sort of thing?” Moody adds in the wake of the surprise that Hermione swore.

“Well, yes,” says Charlie, looking uncomfortable. “The King decreed that the knights are too valuable to waste on… one kidnapping.” _ On the dumb prince_, they all hear. _ On the hopeless cause that would be challenging a dragon, the dumb prince is not worth it. _

Harry swallows the pain. He’ll think about it later. He steps out of the corner as Ron finds his voice to say with feeling, “_Bullshit. _”

“I can’t agree with you, I’m— employed by the King. I can say that I don’t disagree,” Charlie responds, his tone belying his distaste. Then he spots Harry. His eyes widen in near-reverence. “The Chosen One,” he whispers, then flushes and clears his throat. “U- uh,” he stammers. “Hi, I’m Charlie, I’m a- a big fan.”

Harry huffs a laugh and clasps Charlie’s outstretched hand. He doesn’t usually touch, but he won’t leave Charlie hanging. It’s endearing.

Ron groans and facepalms. “Charlie, you’re supposed to be my older brother. So embarrassing, I’m sorry, mate.”

Hermione slaps a hand over Ron’s mouth. “Don’t discourage him. Harry needs some positive encouragement every once in a while.” Ron eyes her for the name drop. Hermione nods.

“_Harry_,” breathes Charlie. Harry tugs his hand back; Charlie drops it like a hot coal and squeaks, “Sorry!”

Harry waves him off and gestures for him to go on.

“The job,” Moody prompts as Charlie’s mouth opens and closes.

The red crawling up Charlie’s neck deepens. He regains some equilibrium as he talks. “Right. I assume you’ve heard of the prince’s kidnapping by now?”

Harry nods, doesn’t bother to smile— his mask hides it anyway. He gestures.

“He’ll do it,” translates Moody.

“Harry!” Hermione protests. 

Harry makes a sharp motion. Moody snaps, “Leave him alone. He will do it.”

“You put too much stock in your luck,” grumbles Ron, “going against a dragon. Voldemort is magic, y’know— evil.”

All of a sudden, Harry’s shoulders shake. He turns away and grasps the back of a chair to keep himself upright, gasping. 

“What’s wrong?” Charlie rushes to hover over him, panicked. 

“He’s laughing, the sod,” says Ron mulishly. “We won’t find out what it is until he gets in way over his head and has to tell us.”

“The Chosen— Harry has a way to defeat the dragon?” 

Harry laughs harder. See, there’s no reason for him to defeat Voldemort, because he’s literally been hired to save_ himself_.

“I… don’t mean to offend anyone, but— is he sane?” Charlie says, concerned.

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Ron snickers. Soon, he and Hermione have also fallen into hilarity; Harry’s mirth is so contagious that even Moody is cracking a smile. 

They sober as Charlie fidgets. “I guess you couldn’t be the Chosen One if you were insane,” he says sheepishly. “That’s a yes, though?”

Harry nods and holds his palm out.

“Right, the down payment.” Charlie fumbles with his belt and hands a leather bag to Harry. It’s unexpectedly heavy. “Standard half now, half later.” 

Harry takes a moment to bask in the surreal experience of knowing exactly how much his father thinks he’s worth. He would have thought… he doesn’t want to wish that the bag was just a little bigger. He shoves the hurt down into the growing pile of festering pain.

A few days out in the wilderness, and he’ll return to Hogwarts. Show everyone he’s fine. And plod on with his mediocre life.

**Hp Hp Hp**

A few days later, Harry will admit that he hadn’t really thought this plan through. 

It’s _ too easy._

See, his apparent kidnapping has shown him a whole new world. Whenever he camped out before, he’d always be with someone, with some purpose. This time, despite Hermione’s protests, he’s alone; this time, when he’s at camp, he doesn’t have to be the dumb prince and he doesn’t have to be the Chosen One. He can just be… Harry. 

Solitude is nice. Too nice. He doesn’t have to worry about being discovered. He doesn’t have to cater to anyone or be catered to. He isn’t constantly reminded of who he ought to be— the bag of coin is tucked into his bedroll, forgotten for the majority of the day. 

Although he is lonely, he is safe. Maybe this is what happiness feels like. Sunshine sparkling off the water as he dips his feet into a stream. Eating a spicy roll that he’d bought at the market while staring at the stars because he can dine whenever he wants. A morning of watching the fog lift from the rolling fens, and no one to stop him, nowhere to be.

(And if his side is empty, well, that thought belongs with all the other hurts he buries.)

Harry doesn’t want to go back. Back to his useless, boring princedom. The Chosen One is a mite better, but it still carries responsibility. 

On the fourth day he makes up his mind. He can’t dodge anymore; the longer he stays, the harder it will be to return. He packs up reluctantly and stashes his supplies under a boulder; he’ll show up as the Chosen One and set a meeting point to ‘return’ Harry the prince. 

A swift jog, and he’s at the castle gates. Fred and George greet him.

“What a surprise!”

“The Chosen One!”

“Where’s our Harry?”

“Don’t tell us-“

Harry grins beneath his mask. He waves for the duo to come over. It may be stupid, but he doesn’t like going into the castle as the Chosen One. He keeps his lives separate. 

“I want to live, okay?” George calls, and they disappear behind the turrets. A minute later they’re standing in front of Harry. Harry makes a show of sheathing his knives. 

“Oh, you don’t talk either— identity, right,” realizes Fred. “You sign? We’ll send for Cedric Diggory. You might recognize him.”

Harry nods. Sign language is rarely taught and learned; Cedric had been determined, in the beginning, to find a way to communicate with Harry, so he’s now one of the few fluent signers in the kingdom. 

Fred and George leave, and a harried Cedric eventually jogs out. His hands raise and sign rapidly as he nears. _ Where’s Harry?_

Harry knows what he _should_ sign. Something like ‘3 pm at the tree over there.’ Instead, without his brain’s consent, though still making sure his signs are standard and precise so Cedric doesn’t recognize him, his hands flow through the motions of _I’m going out to get him now. Did you really think I could run to Voldemort’s cave, rescue the prince, and run back within four days? I may be notorious for the impossible, but I’m not _magical_._ _I was preparing._

Yeah, he had been preparing, all right. <strike>Failing to fish</strike> Preparing.

Cedric ruffles his hair, sheepish, then frowns. _ No horse? _

_ I’m not a knight, _ Harry signs with some bitterness. 

_ I am, _ signs Cedric quickly. _ The king has forbidden the knights from going after Harry, but— take my horse. _

Harry’s gloved fingers pause mid-air. Cedric’s generosity always throws him off. Finally, he signs, _ Won’t you get in trouble with the king? _

_ Doesn’t matter. Prince Harry deserves better. _

Harry looks away from Cedric’s earnest expression to master his guilt. It’s overshadowed by his desire to be free, anyway. _ Don’t expect me for at least three months. _That should be enough time. All he wants is some time.

Cedric’s heavy stare pins between Harry’s shoulder blades as he leads the horse into the forest.

**Hp Hp Hp**

_You don’t have to go_, Harry thinks, sweating as he packs up his tent.

_ There’s really no reason to go, _ Harry berates himself as he buys provisions at the market. He hands a lollipop to a kid who’d been eyeing the stand; the kid runs off shouting something about heroes.

_ None. None at all_, Harry argues as he battles against the urge to step onto the path northward. _ None. _

He loses.

In his defense. He’d made three entire months of vacation for himself. What was he doing to do, sit in the forest and twiddle his thumbs? It wasn’t like anybody is going to miss him. Ron. Hermione. Moody. Cedric. Fred. George. Charlie. That kid.

Okay, so maybe he’s curious. He’s never seen a dragon before. And this could be his last chance to— _ ever_. He’d be a fool not to take it. To travel, to live a little.

_ I mean, I have a _ horse_. It must be Fate. _

That’s what he tells himself.

(He’s lonely, and he’s tired of it. He wants to be just Harry. That’s what he feels, but can’t quite explain.) 

He trods through marshy bogs, forest, crosses a few streams, a river— and finally arrives at the kingdom’s northern border, a flat strip of tundra. The weather cools, and in one of the villages dotting his path, he buys a fur-lined cloak, fur for the faithful horse he’s decided to call Betty (he’d never caught its name), and extra supplies. No one looks twice at his gloves or his hidden face; icy wind, sweeping in from the distant mountains, bites any exposed skin.

The tundra is uninhabitable, and remains unclaimed by any kingdom, even the hardy people under the rule of Karkaroff. When Harry points to the mountains as his destination, the people shrink back. 

“The dragon lives there,” they murmur.

_That’s why I’m going_, Harry signs, though they do not understand. It’s his last chance to turn back. He doesn’t hesitate. He forges forward.

Betty remains by his side. 

The seventh morning of their trek through the tundra dawns deceivingly clear. By midday, Harry can’t see a thing though the sudden, howling snowstorm. 

He can’t continue like this. For every step he takes he risks losing his footing. He halts Betty, hoping she’s adequately protected by the blankets he’s tied around her, and presses himself to her side. Betty’s sides are reassuringly warm, expanding and contracting, until suddenly— they’re not. 

Warmth is ripped away from Harry by the roaring wind. Betty is gone. Where? How? He can’t call out to her, and he can’t hear anything either. He sinks to his knees and rolls into a ball hopelessly. As he shivers, he suddenly realizes that over the sound of his own loud breathing, the roaring of the wind is patterned. 

Roar. Roooar. Roar. Growl. Growl? 

The wind stops. Harry uncurls, tentative. When there’s no consequence, he stands shakily and looks up.

His numb mind registers it a split second before it opens. It’s a large, dark shape, startlingly close to him. Right in front of him. _ Right in front of him_.

Dark lids part to reveal an eerie red glow ringing a dark circle. Another layer parts, this one translucent, and the light takes on a wet sheen.

Harry freezes. 

It’s a gigantic eye.

_ Dragon_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like? Dislike? Predictions? 
> 
> *whispers* shall i continue
> 
> (I’m also open to ideas :D some things are set, others are not)


	2. 2 The Dragon [interlude-ish]

2 The Dragon [interlude-ish]

  


**Tmr Tmr Tmr**

The pretty thing he’s found has the most startlingly vivid eyes.

Tom wants to pluck them out and keep them forever. That beautiful green. But no— they look better set in the delicate features like that. The contrast, with the rosy, pale skin, small nose, pink lips, wild black hair— Tom will not ruin such a precious thing.

The meal had been nice. This offering of treasure is even nicer.

He ignores the frantic surface thoughts— something about a Betty, oh, it’s the horse he’d eaten, and a Cedric, for whom Tom cares not— and shifts to collect his newest prize. His claw misses as it gives a silent yell, lunges forward. Tom blinks, surprised, and the dagger that had been aimed for his eye shatters against his eyelid.

The little human pulls back, readying another blade.

Tom stops purring to snort. He moves his head away and swipes at it again. This time he catches the treasure. It flails about inconveniently; Tom has to hastily bring up his other claw to keep it in his hold. 

Normally he’d be peeved by such insolence. The treasure, though, will be the more worth it for the trouble. He hisses at it to _ stay still_.

It deflates in shock and motions with its tiny appendages. Tom doesn’t understand, but with some careful observation he will. After all, he’s run a loyal following of mortals for seventy years; this mortal couldn’t be very different.

Tom unfurls his mighty wings and rises into the air, cradling his precious cargo. He checks how it’s doing; it clings to the ridge of one of his scales. Good— it’s safer that way.

It’s a short journey. A scant few minutes later, he’s weaving through the mountains’ scraggly peaks. He circles one, debating. No… his main cave would suit it best. He makes a wide turn, wider than usual so his treasure will not be harmed, and touches down.

The newest addition to his hoard peeks around a claw. Tom watches avidly as it stands on wobbly legs, using the raised edges of his scales as support. It steps tentatively out of Tom’s hold, onto a pile of gold.

Tom scoops it back up before it gets too far and damages itself. His talons are clumsily large. He will first decide where to display this new bauble, and then shrink his size to examine it further.

The main cave, on second thought, is quite large; it might be easily lost in the sea of gold. Tom deliberates, putting the treasure against different backdrops to test what will look best. It stops wriggling around on Tom’s third pass around the cave, its eyes widening in wonder. Tom purrs. 

None of the existing crevices are good enough; he raises one claw to gouge out an area on the cave wall. Its crudeness is easily fixed with a few breaths of dragon-fire, which melts the surfaces into a smooth, shining black. A perfect backdrop.

Tom deposits the treasure into the new space. Perfect. It’s empty, though, besides the treasure. Tom knows just the thing.

When he returns, the treasure is leaning dangerously far out of the lip of the cave, looking down what to it must be a tall, sheer cliff. Tom prods it back in with his nose and snorts in warning. The warm air blows the treasure over and its face flushes pleasingly. Tom snorts again. The treasure seems to have abandoned its fear and pats Tom’s nose, giggling. Tom can’t feel anything, but he imagines that its little hands are as pleasing as its gem-eyes.

He purrs again. This time he gets a positive reaction. Wanting to keep the treasure’s face bright, Tom ducks down and gently hooks the silver chain of his favorite locket around a small horn on his snout, brings it up carefully to offer to the treasure.

It points to itself, expression scrunching up. Tom doesn’t like that. He nudges the locket closer.

The treasure takes it in a funny combination of suspicious and honored. Tom swathes it with warm breath until it clasps the locket around its neck.

Tom preens, admiring it. He’d been getting tired of the same old gold. This treasure is exactly what he needed. He’s never had a living thing in his hoard before, but he’s confident that he’ll take care of it like he would any other piece—

Reverently.

**Hp Hp Hp**

Once he realizes the threatening growling is actually purring, his vacation becomes a lot more relaxing.

Honestly, he should have known when the wind stopped that the dragon’s body had surrounded him. And when Betty the horse disappeared. Maybe he should feel more guilty that he’s killed Cedric’s horse, and in such a gruesome manner. Eaten alive is certainly not an end he’d want for himself.

As ridiculous as it is that he literally got captured by the dragon that he’s already supposedly been captured by, and that he’s been hired to _ avoid _ capture by, it’s not that bad so far. All that’s happened is: Voldemort pushes a bauble towards him. He picks it up, puts it on, or uses it to decorate. Voldemort gives approval or disapproval— because apparently, dragons can talk— and takes things back accordingly.

It’s nice, to touch another living being after so long strictly limiting himself, even if it is a dragon. And, anyway, Voldemort doesn’t seem as evil as the stories say. The towns around the area are still standing. Some part of Harry hopes that Voldemort is only... misunderstood, as unlikely as that would be. Like himself.

When he falls asleep on a bed of soft, golden straw, he’s not too worried. He still has two entire months. One month to be captured, one to travel back to Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Betty. Also Tom literally saved his eye by accident?? I’m laughing 
> 
> Now that everything has been set up: we let the pieces fall. The next few chapters are gonna be very Long… (what have I done) 
> 
> stay tuned for lessons about self worth, romance, Death Eaters, Cedric’s good intentions, magic and parseltongue and *gasp* Order of the Phoenix


	3. Hoard

3 Hoard

**Hp Hp Hp**

Harry is cocooned by a fluffy warmth. He languidly feels as if he’s floating on clouds, and wonders why he’d woken up… he’s still sleepy.

He rolls over, limbs heavy, intent on settling back into his vague dream— something ridiculous about losing Cedric’s horse to a dragon— and his eyes meet red. Eerie red eyes belonging to another man, who’s sitting a mere arm’s length away from Harry’s face.

Harry’s heart thumps. His disoriented mind frantically tries to wrap itself around the idea of being awake, and in proximity to such a—

“How do you feel?” The man’s voice is a low rumble, rich and smooth, when he speaks. His attention is unnervingly fixed upon Harry’s response.

_ Float, clouds_, Harry thinks automatically, before his brain catches up to the situation. He jumps out of the pile of golden straw he’d apparently been _ sleeping _ in, dropping the thick fur blankets— he’s still clothed, thankfully— and rushes over to the man. Cautiously he reaches out, prodding at the man’s upper arms. Oh, no.

He’s real.

The man regards him with abject confusion.

**Tmr Tmr Tmr**

_ What a poor soul_, Tom reads in his treasure’s mind. _ He wasn’t here yesterday. With Voldemort taking prisoners willy-nilly like this, it's a wonder that any people are left in the closer villages at all! _

This— this insolent creature!

“I am no _ prisoner,_” Tom corrects. “How _ offensive_. I would never allow such a lowly thing!”

While he’s talking, the treasure shuffles about, arranges the golden straw to its satisfaction, and leads Tom to the little pile. In disbelief, Tom allows it to push him down until he deigns to sit. It perches next to Tom, its earnest gem-eyes looking at him.

Tom is not sure what, exactly, it expects him to do. He lounges stiffly, feeling— unbalanced. And not liking it. He owns the place; _ he _ was the one who shapeshifted into human form to inspect his treasure on its own scale; _ he _ should be the one in control.

“I am not a prisoner here,” Tom repeats. He continues despite the treasure taking his left hand with a breath of air that somehow sounds sympathetic. “I am the _ dragon Voldemort_,” Tom insists. And yet the treasure doesn’t seem to believe him. It squeezes Tom’s hand reassuringly, as if that means something, and pats his shoulder. Tom had been right— its nimble fingers _ are _pleasing against his sensitive human skin— but…

He doesn’t know why he feels the need to _ prove _ himself to the treasure, yet it must be done. Tom stands, declares, “I shall show you,” and strides towards the edge of the cave. He shrugs off the treasure’s frantic motions to stop him and leaps off the edge of the cave, releases his magic in a flash of light.

The treasure gapes at him. Tom changes back, smug. This human skin had taken an excess of time and valuable materials to craft, but the trouble of the ritual was worth it.

“How do you feel?” he asks again, when it’s apparent the treasure will not respond.

The treasure seems to be at a loss for words. Quickly, its expression settles. It makes a strange motion with its hands. Its thoughts reveal nothing of import, only an image of fluffy clouds so vivid that Tom cannot reach anything underneath.

Tom is… unsettled. “You _ can _ understand me. This worked just fine yesterday, even with Parseltongue; speak!”

Large green eyes peer up at him expectantly. The treasure touches its throat and shakes its head, then makes the first motion. The image of clouds is truly irritating.

The day before, Tom had been grateful for the treasure’s silence. Useless screaming or chatter may have made him give up and impatiently gouge out the treasure’s gem-eyes then and there; the treasure as a whole, though, is a better piece for his hoard. Now, however, Tom is growing concerned. Is something— wrong? What could have caused it? Tom _ knows _ mortals, and nothing he’d done could have silenced— unless the treasure was defective in the first place?

Tom scans the treasure. Nothing looks out of place. A magical probe reveals only the treasure’s own reserve of magic, muted under its skin. Though untrained, it’s clearly not defective— it’s a living, coiling thing of potential. And the treasure _ could _ understand Tom’s parseltongue in dragon form, so…

“You cannot speak,” Tom concludes.

The treasure beams and nods enthusiastically.

“What do the clouds mean?”

The treasure’s eyes widen. It points to its head in a question.

“No, the clouds on the ceiling,” says Tom, aggravated.

The treasure tilts its head back to search the ceiling, then frowns at Tom in reprimand. Tom realizes with consternation that his gut drops slightly at the look. Nevertheless, the treasure carefully thinks of _ golden hay, _ then _ clouds_, then smiles.

“You slept well,” Tom guesses, impressed with the treasure’s quick grasp of the concept of mind magic.

The treasure holds up two fingers close together, its grin widening. Tom likes how its gem-eyes brighten with the expression and resolves to make it smile more.

“Good,” Tom decides. “Very good. Inform me of anything impeding your function immediately. I will hunt; you require sustenance, do you not?”

The treasure nods. Tom turns around to leave, and is stopped by a tug at his arm. The treasure brings up letters, one by one: H-A-R-R-Y.

“Harry,” Tom reads. The treasure, Harry, flushes, and continues with an image of Tom putting on garments. Tom doesn’t see why a meager cloth covering is necessary, as constricting and inconvenient as it would be… but Harry’s gem-eyes are pleading.

Well, if it impedes his treasure’s function so drastically.

Tom sighs. “Fine— I will wear clothes when I return. Only for you, my treasure.” He leaps off the edge of the cave once again, shedding his human skin midair, fixing the sweet surprise on Harry’s face in his mind. Harry will learn. Tom will not have anybody thinking his hoard lesser, even his hoard itself.

**Hp Hp Hp**

After several long moments spent frozen where Voldemort left him, Harry has to sit down heavily and cover his face with both hands. His ears burn from lingering embarrassment— he’d held an entire _ conversation _ with the _ dragon _ while it was _ naked! When did it even become human? Is it human at all? What _ is _ a dragon, anyway??_— and from the address. ‘_My treasure’_? 

Not to mention that the conversation shouldn’t have been possible in the first place. Can all dragons read minds?

He decides to ignore the questions until Voldemort is present to answer them, and passes the time inspecting the gold and gems that had been stuffed into the cave yesterday. Even Harry’s inexperienced eye can tell that most of the pieces are worth far beyond anything he might find in Hogwarts’ treasury.

He feels a moment of apprehension, his hands hovering above a diadem, then decides that Voldemort was the one who decided to leave priceless valuables with Harry. Clearly, the dragon has given up his right to bitch over Harry’s fingerprints.

Harry lifts the circlet gingerly. Etched onto the silver is the phrase, “_Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure._” An oval sapphire gleams on the breast of a regal, delicate bird. Feeling sacrilegious for even considering putting the diadem on his own head, Harry puts it back down. It would get tangled in his thick hair, anyway.

The quote reminds him of Hermione. He turns his inspection to the rest of the cave instead of following that thought.

Rich furs cover the cold stone floor, so Harry takes his boots off to enjoy how his feet sink into the softness. One would think that all of the shiny things lying around would be gaudy; Voldemort, though, somehow made it tasteful. It must be the power of the dragon’s perfectionism. Although there is this one golden goblet encrusted with jewels… _ that _ is a bit much. Its sparkling hurts his eyes. Thinking of which, _ how _ is it sparkling? Harry’s in a _ cave_, with a solid ceiling and no windows.

He hadn’t noticed the lighting before, but now he realizes that the warm glow is somehow coming from an orb in the center of the larger cave, diffusing softly through the air. Magic.

Harry pauses, expecting a surge of revulsion that does not come. Perhaps he likes the idea of accepting something that the court so vehemently hates. The royals don’t want him, and they don’t want magic either— there’s a sort of kinship in that.

Magic doesn’t seem all that evil so far, kind of like Voldemort. He means— Voldemort saved him from the cold instead of killing him, and surely no dire evil could emit a glow so warm as the one in the cave?

All the death and destruction parts that Harry’s only heard of— he can concede that Voldemort ate Betty, yes, but all living things need to eat somehow, and _ surely _ no dire evil could be as soft and accommodating as Voldemort has been to him so far? The only evil he’s ever experienced is cold and violent, both as the Prince and as the Chosen One.

Musing on this, Harry starts running through some of Moody’s drills; Moody would kill him if he showed up at the tavern in less than peak physical condition. Thankfully, he’d been keeping his knives on his person, so he hadn’t lost them as well when Betty, along with the packs she carried, had been eaten. He’d be deader than dead if he’d lost Moody’s gifts as well.

He fondly runs a thumb along a wickedly sharp edge and makes a note to ask Voldemort for a maintenance kit. He turns a table on its side for target practice and hopes Voldemort isn’t too put out with the new gouges in the wood.

Afterwards, sweaty and tired, Harry judges the dwindling amount of water left in the canteen clipped to his belt. He takes a few cautious mouthfuls, screws the cap back on, and sprawls back on the hay pile. It’s nice to have time to himself, under no pressure or expectations.

He idly fingers the locket Voldemort had bestowed upon him the day before, wondering what the serpentine ‘S’ stands for. Casual fiddling doesn’t open it.

Before Harry’s thoughts can turn back to anybody he’d left behind, a roar heralds Voldemort’s arrival. Harry rolls to his feet and trots onto the ledge of the cave to meet him. The dragon is just as striking as before: absolutely huge, dark all over but for an albino stripe down his spiky back and red, red eyes. He opens powerful, bloody jaws to deposit the carcass of a deer at Harry’s feet, then shrinks back into human form. Harry blinks and the red stains smeared across Voldemort’s mouth disappear.

“I have arrived,” Voldemort announces, unnecessarily. 

Thankfully, the dragon? human? is now clothed, in simple cloth and leathers. He reaches into a sack he carries and waves a hand. Stones float out of the sack, followed by sticks of various sizes, an iron cast skillet, and a cauldron full of water.

As the first stone brushes past Harry on its path to the center of the cave’s entranceway, a rich warmth hums through the air and caresses Harry’s skin. Harry gasps; something swells up in him in response, and he instinctively reaches out with it, tentatively meeting the foreign tendrils of power, which recoil at the same time that Voldemort sucks in a breath. Harry looks up.

Voldemort blinks away an intense expression Harry doesn’t know how to interpret. “So you _ can _ access your magic,” he says nonchalantly, and the warmth swirls playfully back onto Harry, touching his neck and wrists before it settles onto his shoulders. Harry’s hands pass through the air where it seems to be, but when he reaches out again with the energy thrumming beneath his skin, the nape of his neck tingles and a savory-sweet taste sizzles on the back of his tongue.

So this is magic.

He absorbs the sensation, and then Voldemort pulls _ another _cauldron out of his sack, and he’s distracted. That definitely was not right… the belly of the cauldron couldn’t possibly have fit through the opening of the sack. Harry takes the bundle of coarse fabric, marvelling at how much it can hold. It also tingles faintly when he touches it, with the same flavor as before.

It must be Voldemort’s magic. Now that he’s been made aware of it, he realizes that it suffuses the cave, and some pieces of Voldemort’s hoard that he’d dismissed before tingle differently.

How wondrous magic is! Aside from the feeling— if Harry had a sack like this… Voldemort stops him before he can turn it inside out.

“It is a simple extension charm,” Voldemort says. “One would think that you’ve never seen magic before.”

Harry shakes his head, wide-eyed, thinking deliberately to Hogwarts’ ban on magic, and Trelawney’s prophecy.

“Ah, yes,” says Voldemort, failing to elaborate on his sudden amusement. Another strange expression flits across Voldemort’s chiseled features so quickly Harry barely catches it. “Loathe as I am to share you,” he muses, almost to himself, “you _ are _ in the prophecy. My cause would benefit from your potential; what a waste it would be, to leave such a powerful gem rotting in the dark.”

Harry latches onto the first sentence. _ Trelawney’s _ prophecy? Harry’s in it?

“Of course.” Voldemort raises an eyebrow. “I recognized you as soon as I saw you. Prophecy child.”

It occurs to Harry that he’s never heard exactly what the prophecy says in full.

Voldemort is now fully intrigued. “Really? James and Lily shared not a word of it with you? Not even for your own protection?”

No? Harry had never found it strange, should he have? Besides, everyone already knows what it says— why would the exact wording matter? It’s simple: if Voldemort returns magic to Hogwarts, the kingdom is doomed. That’s what the prophecy says.

Harry startles when Voldemort throws his head back and laughs hysterically. It’s an attractive laugh, though Harry has no idea what’s so funny. Harry fidgets. There’s still a dead deer at their feet, which is super awkward.

“Oh, darling,” chuckles Voldemort once he’s calmed down somewhat, wiping at his eyes. “Those pathetic fools. I would waste no breath on bringing Hogwarts’ so called riches to ruin; I have plenty of my own.”

That makes a lot of sense, considering how afraid Harry is to breathe on some of the things in this cave.

“Magic, however, demands balance. As a dragon, it is my duty to uphold this balance; Hogwarts’ resistance will only make the consequences more painful on its people.” Voldemort doesn’t look very… saddened at this prospect. “I will admit, Grindelwald going rogue upset the balance, but he is not representative of my species. His reign has been no more since I ate him.”

Harry’s confusion increases with every word Voldemort speaks. And where does Harry fit into this?

“Simple. Magic must be returned to Hogwarts, and you, prophecy child, are essential in doing so.” Voldemort pauses. “Yes, I did eat Grindelwald. No, Dumbledore _ did _ defeat him— by devouring his corpse, I gained his magic. Yes, it was necessary… He was delicious, of course.”

Harry shudders. Well, if Grindelwald deserved it.

“He did,” scoffs Voldemort. “Return to relevance, treasure. The prophecy. I cannot believe those dunderheads, except I truly can. Ha!” He calms his mirth again, then continues, “You know of the attack of your second Samhain?”

When he was one year and two months old. The assassin. Of course he knows of the attack that gave him his scar, rendered him mute, and basically determined his uselessness and freakish nature.

“You are not useless, nor a freak of any sort,” Voldemort thunders abruptly, countenance darkening. He heeds Harry’s flinch and gentles his voice. “Regardless of your status outside this cave, you are now a part of my hoard. A dragon’s hoard is treasured, protected. I would not accept you if you were not worthy of my attention, and I have never claimed a living thing before.”

Harry’s gaze skitters to the deer corpse.

Voldemort files his response away for later and refocuses on the previous topic. “In regards to the ‘attack.’ It was no _ assassin _.“

Harry’s eyes flick back up to Voldemort’s in shock. He knows who it was?

“You are marked by magic, Harry. You were born with that lightning-bolt scar, and, I suspect, mute. The scar, in particular— any magical being who has not been living under a rock for the past thirty years would recognize you.”

What? So there was no attack?

“Oh, there most certainly was,” corrects Voldemort. “Only it was not any assassin, as you have been led to believe. It was your uncle. Vernon, I believe his name was. He was afraid of your potential. He was executed promptly, along with his wife. I suppose it is not very common knowledge, but an informant of mine attended their execution.”

Harry’s mind is sent reeling with this revelation. Why had his parents lied to him? Why did everybody believe them? Why should Harry believe Voldemort?

Voldemort continues after a moment. “Oh, I see it now. Make up a semi-plausible reason for your mark, and no one will suspect you for being anything but a victim of your circumstances. They must have played up your mute nature to distract people from finding out you are the prophecy child. What a _ stupid _ way to prevent the return of magic! You would have found out for yourself, eventually. It is inevitable.” Voldemort taps his chin thoughtfully. “I suppose your parents also could have been ‘protecting’ you, or some imbecilic rot.”

Harry sways on his feet, feeling faint. His stomach growls.

“Worry not,” says Voldemort with finality, a rumble deepening his voice. “I will take care of you. You are hungry. Eat.” He gestures towards the deer and the firepit.

Harry is suddenly very aware that he hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast yesterday. He _ is _ hungry, but— he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with the cauldron, or any of that. At the very least he knows that he can’t eat deer _ raw _, not to mention that the deer still has fur attached to it.

Voldemort raises an expectant eyebrow and motions him on; he shuffles few paces closer to the cauldron and stops to look back at the dragon in a bewildered plea for help.

“Cook,” Voldemort prompts him.

Understanding lights in Harry’s eyes. He shakes his head.

“Would you repeat that?” Voldemort says flatly, something dangerous creeping into his voice. “If I am not mistaken, you refuse to eat?”

Harry brings up his hands hastily as Voldemort steps forward, intent on inspecting him or something equally as unnecessary. He signs, and after chewing on his bottom lip a moment in thought, he brings to mind an image of himself, buying food.

“I can buy you food if you wish,” begins Voldemort, looking unsettled— 

Harry shakes his head again, this time more emphatically, with a cutting motion of his hands. _ Can’t_, he signs. _ Can’t cook_. He wants Voldemort to understand. _ I don’t know how._

“Slow down,” Voldemort commands him, gaze trained on his fingers, intermittently flicking up to meet his eyes. “Show me that again. That is your method of communication, correct?”

Harry nods and signs again, carefully, _ I don’t know how to cook. _ After a moment he adds, _ Sorry? _ He’d never had the need to, as a royal, never lacking money.

A pause. “You… know not how to feed yourself,” Voldemort repeats incredulously. 

Harry nods, relieved. _ Yes_, he signs as well, latching onto the idea of Voldemort _ understanding _ him like Cedric does without having to read his thoughts.

“_Ho__w_, exactly, have you survived thus far?” A bit of steam curls at Voldemort’s nostrils and ears. “No. Do not answer that. Rest assured, I will take care of you.”

Normally, Harry would not be sure that he needs to be taken care of, but Voldemort is so intense in his conviction that Harry does not want to contradict anything he says. Besides, he’s stuck in a dragon’s lair for the foreseeable future. Harry gulps and nods.

“You doubt me,” says Voldemort, frowning. “No matter, precious, you shall understand in time. Now. Though I know not these mortal workings, surely they cannot be difficult.”

Several scorch marks on the stone floor, a melted cauldron, and half a mangled deer later, Voldemort growls in frustration. Harry huddles in the corner with the soft straw, fingering the locket Voldemort refuses to let him take off. 

Dragon-fire is _ hot_. Harry figures that’s why the cave isn’t freezing, and why he has to turn his face away from the sight of Voldemort’s bare, muscled torso, perfectly proportioned and pale— Voldemort had accidentally burned his shirt to ashes.

Voldemort glares at him when he fails to muffle his huffs of laughter after another failed attempt. The prophesied Harbinger of Destruction, determined and unable to make Harry the Dumb his midday meal. Voldemort doesn’t get the joke. Harry topples to the side and has to cover his eyes to block Voldemort’s stupidly funny pout.

“My Lord?” Somebody calls from the mouth of the cave, not enough resonance in their voice to be Voldemort. Harry rolls over to see.

Voldemort twitches and faces the newcomer, displeased. His back blocks Harry’s view of who it is. “Took you long enough to arrive. Take a broom instead of the stairs next time.” Voldemort cuts off Lucius’ apologies in favor of: “I saved a flank of the deer. Show me.”

He steps to the side. Lucius is a tall man, with aristocratic features contorted into a strange blend of obedience and haughtiness. He briefly turns up his nose to the animal corpse, and Harry reckons he would never do this outside of Voldemort’s orders.

If Voldemort really has a ‘cause,’ and Lucius is one of the followers that Harry’s overheard council members furtively whispering about, then… he means, if Voldemort is telling the truth… then Harry’s parents have lied to him for all of his life. For his ‘protection,’ or for the kingdom’s. Except it wasn’t really for _ his _ protection, was it? Because his old guard probably wouldn’t have dared to _ think _ about doing what they’d done if he wasn’t branded as the Dumb Prince.

And, if magic is balance and they’re resisting it, what does that mean? Nothing good, if Harry trusts what Voldemort said. Grindelwald upset the balance and he was _ eaten_! 

Harry had been hoping for a relatively benign vacation. Maybe he shouldn’t worry about this now. He can find out what exactly the prophecy says and then take care of whatever he needs to do when he returns to Hogwarts. He can’t be expected to do anything now; he _ is _ supposedly captured. 

Technically it won’t be lying when he claims that the Chosen One has saved him, because he has to walk out of the cave himself.

But also— he can do magic? In the revelations he’d nearly forgotten. Voldemort had said, _ so you _ can _ access your magic_, so he’d done magic. The thought is absurd.

Harry drags himself out of his jumbled thoughts as a mouth-watering smell wafts towards him. Something savory. The beginnings of a stew.

Lucius’ hair captures his attention. It’s very pale, and shiny, and obviously well-cared for, despite being slightly mussed from Lucius’ evident stair-climb to get to the cave and from cooking. It’s gorgeous— kind of like Voldemort’s human form, that. Harry brings a hand up to his own rough, unruly, dark locks, then realizes what he’s doing and scowls, changing the movement to squeeze Voldemort’s locket instead.

He wants to learn how Lucius is using magic to cook, but he keeps getting distracted by Lucius and Voldemort’s grace. His own clumsiness has caused him so many problems, especially the disappointment of his parents at balls and ceremonies. He’s not deaf as well as mute, though many seem to mix that up; he does hear the murmurs that follow him in and out of the royal court. He tries not to acknowledge them, focusing instead on his one saving grace, the Chosen One’s prowess in battle.

Again. He really shouldn’t be worrying about anything; this is his vacation time. Harry forces himself to relax; his eyelids droop. 

At this point, the deer is stripped of meat, its bones piled in a corner and its fur strung taut on a wooden frame. Lucius is pointing a stick at the hovering deer meat, waving it about in exact motions and muttering. Harry has no idea what he’s doing, but Voldemort seems to approve, and soon, deer stew is bubbling merrily above a small fire. 

The aroma fills the cave, tinged with spice; Harry takes deeper inhales than necessary. The flickering of the flame is mesmerizing, and the temperature of the cave has settled into the most comfortable warmth, and he must be more tired than he’d thought, for the softness of the golden hay beneath Harry lulls him into forgetting to open his eyes…

He awakens with a start as a heavy fur is draped over him. Still drowsy, he keeps his eyes closed.

“Humans require: sustenance, warmth, and physical activity,” he hears Voldemort list, moving away again. “Anything else?”

“Mental stimulation,” Lucius replies, sounding somewhat uncomfortable. “Boredom is to be avoided. Positive emotions are preferable. Check regularly for those signs I told you of— you’re sure of your mastery of those healing basics?”

“Yes, don’t question me,” says Voldemort, impatiently. “I’ll introduce him to the others once he’s acclimated more. During our meeting next week, I’ll ensure that professional physicians examine him— Pomphrey is a safe choice, she’ll get Dumbledore off my back, and probably Spleen, he’s professional…”

“And avoid Nagini at first,” Lucius adds. “She disturbs humans easily.”

“Fine.” Voldemort seems put out at this suggestion. Harry’s curious, but not enough to stir. “Can I wake him up now?”

Harry can hear the frown in Lucius’ voice. “I would recommend letting him rest, my Lord. He seems to have traveled hard before you found him. He is fortunate that you are so generous, my Lord; in the snowstorm he may not have survived much longer—”

“Fine,” repeats Voldemort, and the conversation fades out of Harry’s mind as he falls back asleep, safe under the weight of the fur.

Harry drifts through vague impressions of colors, sunshine and green and red. A pointy chin sniggers at him and Voldemort helps him blind it with a glowing rock. A bag of coins— exactly one hundred forty-four gold pieces, which he doesn’t remember counting— just starts to weigh him down at the belt when—

“Harry.” Voldemort’s hand on his shoulder shakes him awake. “The stew is ready. You must eat.”

Harry’s head clears at his touch, his breath slowing (when had it quickened?). With bleary eyes, he searches the cave for Lucius, then looks back to Voldemort, questioning.

“Lucius left,” Voldemort tells him, his brows drawing together. “Stop admiring his hair. Mine is better. I did not even have you meet him. Are you still laughing at me?”

Harry shakes his head, turns it pointedly away.

“I am the Lord Voldemort, not to be mocked. Stop.” However, when Harry does, Voldemort orders, “Laugh again.”

_ I don’t laugh on command_, signs Harry indignantly.

“Hmm,” says Voldemort, leaning far closer than he ought to, studying something on Harry’s face. Harry gulps at the proximity to all of the bare skin Voldemort still has not covered with a new shirt, averting his gaze. He’s gotten quite enough of this from the knights, thank you very much.

Voldemort’s breath, smelling of ashes and roasted marshmallows, fans across Harry’s face when he murmurs, satisfied, “Still bright.” Voldemort pulls away, leaving Harry to sigh in subtle relief. “Come. Eat.”

Voldemort’s demand doesn’t make sense, because instead of letting Harry stand and walk over, which Harry is perfectly capable of doing himself, he sweeps Harry into his arms and _ carries _ Harry to the furs placed near the entrance of the cave, where a bowl of stew awaits. Harry’s squirming does nothing against Voldemort’s immovable grip, so he gives up his resistance. Voldemort sets him down unbearably gently, as if he is made of some easily shattered crystal, and settles himself on an adjacent fur.

“Neglect not your vegetables,” Voldemort reminds him, handing him a bowl of soup and a spoon.

Harry’s composure suffers. Voldemort _ cares _ about something as trivial as his nutrition. Missus Weasley’s threats now have some truth to them.

He takes the offerings eagerly. He would have eaten them anyway— the food is delicious and he is starving. Voldemort doesn’t touch any of the food himself; just _ stares _ as Harry practically inhales three bowls. 

He finally slows down to savor the broth at his fourth bowl. The pace also allows him to feel mortification again. 

_ Don’t you have anything better to do than to watch me eat? _ Harry tries to convey with one hand and a stream of disjointed words. Voldemort, who is apparently a genius, translates the message quickly.

Voldemort answers, intense, “Maintenance of my hoard is something I take seriously.” His ruby red eyes are attentive, catching every one of Harry’s movements. He adds with a note of fascination, “Where do you put all of the food? You are small.”

Harry shrugs, used to scrutiny but still mildly flustered with the single minded attention of such a powerful being. It’s ridiculous that Voldemort considers him a part of his _ hoard_, as if he were just another trinket like the locket around his neck—

“Oh, but you are mistaken,” Voldemort says abruptly, catching Harry’s bowl before it spills in his fright. “You are no ordinary treasure. I have never had a living thing in my hoard before, but I already enjoy you very much. Your mannerisms and your looks are particularly pleasing. And I will take care of you, as I have said.” His stare is heavy. “Doubt not, treasure; I cannot have such low esteem of my hoard, even from my hoard itself. I will keep telling you until you get it into your thick skull. Now, stop avoiding your greens before I roast you.”

Okay, so maybe Harry _ was _avoiding the vegetables. It occurs to him that Voldemort would probably get on well with Hermione. 

  
  


**Hp Hp Hp**

Over the next week, it’s as if Voldemort endeavors to make Harry as uncomfortable as possible.

_ I’m not wearing that_, Harry signs flatly.

“But the green— and your eyes—”

_ No. _ Harry crosses his arms defensively, warding himself from the glittery aura of the ostentatious robe.

Voldemort pinches his nose and sulks. Then he brightens. “How about this one?” With a flourish, he holds up a black robe with more subtle embroidery.

Harry eyes him. He knows what’s going on: Voldemort first presents something so objectionable that Harry is compelled to accept the next option in relieved comparison.

_ … Fine, _ he concedes reluctantly, and a triumphant smirk etches itself onto Voldemort’s face. Voldemort is a prick. Harry resolves to refuse the next offering.

_ No, _ Harry signs without even looking up from his lap, having felt the heat of Voldemort’s breath on his neck before he asked the question.

_ No, _ Harry shakes his head, easing into a hot bath, knowing that Voldemort— the creeper— will sense it.

_ No_. Harry slaps Voldemort’s hands away from his neck, where they’d been about to clasp a necklace. Voldemort lets his arms fall to his sides, despondent.

“I will roast you,” threatens Voldemort halfheartedly, looking so dejected that Harry caves. The smirk returns.

Exhausting all avenues of denial, Harry is similarly cajoled into accepting showers of gems and fancy clothes and praise with ill grace. He sticks to the plainer designs; the cloth is still of a quality finer than his father’s ceremonial robes. Harry tries to pick pieces that he won’t mind dirtying.

Voldemort rewards him with treacle tart. 

_ How did you know this is my favorite? _ Harry signs with one hand, stuffing his mouth with the other. Voldemort merely leans back and smiles languidly. The utter prat.

Despite this, though, Harry _ is _enjoying himself. Voldemort is picking up sign language fairly quickly— no, scarily quickly. Harry finds him a witty conversationalist, full of knowledge and stories he’s never imagined were possible, and Voldemort always hears him. As he gets used to the unsettling attention, he begins to like it. He likes that all he ever has to do is sigh and Voldemort’s attention is instantly caught. 

It’s a heady, powerful feeling, to be valued so blatantly, and yet to have nearly nothing expected of him in return. He clings to it, for he knows that it will not last beyond this month— Voldemort will tire of him, and then he will leave.

Voldemort spends hours teaching him amazing things, like how to conjure water and levitate an object and what a wand is and how he made his human skin, and they figure out how to cook together under Lucius’ instruction. Harry gives stories in return— Voldemort gets a real kick out of why he’d been near the mountain— though he doesn’t feel like they’re nearly enough. Voldemort, for his part, seems perfectly happy just to admire Harry, and never tires of bringing new pieces into the cave and arranging Harry against them.

And the _ cave. _ Voldemort had shaped elegant stairs into the cliff side; that had been how Lucius arrived. He lets Harry scamper down to explore the main cave. It’s wondrous. Surprisingly organized, too— Harry finds, at one point, delicate, aged tapestries lined in a long row, encased in gleaming glass rectangles mounted on the cave wall, each numbered with elegant script on crisp parchment labels. Harry finds his own chicken scratch wanting in comparison.

By the end of the week, Harry has gathered enough courage to investigate the orb in the center of the main cave, displayed on a stout, dark pedestal, the source of the yellow-warm light suffusing the entire place. Voldemort is out. He’s never banned Harry from any place or object; nevertheless, Harry feels less inhibited in his absence. Harry supposes that’s why he doesn’t resist the urge to touch.

Its surface is hot, yet not uncomfortably so, and hollow. Harry carefully lifts the smooth oval to see if there’s anything on its bottom. Nothing. Faintly disappointed, Harry sets it back in its place.

He ends up wandering to the mouth of the main cave, which just barely shelters him from the cold of the mountains outside. Overcome by a sudden fatigue and loneliness, he sits to wait for nightfall and Voldemort’s return.

Is he so pathetic that he can’t even entertain himself anymore without the dragon’s attentions?

His scars ache, ugly lattices marring his back and upper thighs; the pain had returned after a mere week without the salve Harry usually takes, though it’s nowhere near as bad as he suspects it could have been without the dragon’s heat. Voldemort hasn’t discovered the raised edges yet because Harry always insists on thicker fabrics to protect his modesty.

The gorgeous sunset is muted by thick fog; eventually, Harry shivers and climbs the stairs back to his cave. What a strange thought. _ His _ cave.

Halfway up, he suddenly becomes aware that the echoes of his footsteps are off time; they must be somebody else’s. Voldemort always flies in dragon form, though?

He whirls around and trips. Immediately he is swept up into strong arms and cuddled against a familiar chest, a warmer temperature than humans tend to run. Knowing the futility of trying to walk on his own, he wriggles into a more comfortable position to free his hands, a bubbly gladness welling up inside of him, the ache of his scars forgotten. He presses closer, burrowing into the comfort, but only briefly; he pulls back as he feels scrutiny piercing through Voldemort’s back.

_ Who are they? _ he signs, trying to peer around Voldemort’s broad shoulders at the group trailing them. There are shuffling footsteps and clicking ones and thudding ones, but nobody speaks.

“My wayward treasure,” Voldemort greets him instead of replying, and drops a soft kiss on his hair.

Harry’s blush burns more intensely than usual due to their audience. Voldemort has no shame. Harry repeats his inquiry, lightly smacking Voldemort’s chin for emphasis.

“My most trusted Death Eaters,” answers Voldemort, “and Dumbledore’s most trusted of the Order of the Phoenix. I shall introduce them to you soon enough, treasure.” The fond curve of his lips softens Harry’s embarrassment.

Harry happens to catch a glimpse of the people again as Voldemort turns left into the cave above his. The wrinkled old man at the front, possessing a long, white beard and half-moon spectacles and wearing a garishly orange robe dotted with winking stars— he somehow looks… deeply disturbed. Beside him, the sallow faced man with the hooked nose also looks this way, but Harry suspects that the scowl is his default expression. Harry has seen that face before… 

Snape sneers, equally as appalled to see Harry. 

The sod, what is he doing here? He jolts and nearly headbutts Voldemort while being set down on a raised cushion of brown fur. _ Snape! _ he conveys to Voldemort. The name-sign is new; Voldemort understands anyway, reading Harry’s mind.

Voldemort frowns. “You know Severus?” Harry feels a tad sorry for Snape as he’s pinned by Voldemort’s glare. 

Harry tugs Voldemort’s attention back to himself, sparing Snape. He meets red eyes and thinks of his crown, and of Hogwarts, the castle keep. Then, Snape, mixing some potion in the apothecary.

“Ah, his position as the royal potions master,” Voldemort confirms. “Severus is a spy for Dumbledore and I.”

_ A spy_, Harry signs, astonished, his motions jilted. _ Why? For the magic thing? D-U-M-B-L-E-D-O-R-E? _ He finger-spells the name.

“Patience,” Voldemort chuckles, and will say no more until every person is seated haphazardly on the soft ground in a messy circle. Some splay themselves across their spots while others keep prim postures. 

“Tom, my dear boy,” begins the wrinkled old man, who has sat opposite Voldemort, and Harry would dislike him instantly for that address if not for his own curiosity. “Won’t we introduce ourselves? The prophecy child—”

“This is Harry,” Tom interrupts. “No harm shall befall him, lest you feel my wrath.” Harry registers that he was addressing Voldemort as _ Tom _. Is ‘Tom’ another name of his? Harry knows some people who have more than one name, though ‘Tom’ seems somewhat plebian for a dragon. More importantly, why hadn’t Voldemort told him of this, if it is his name? Maybe he’s embarrassed of how common it is. It seems like the sort of ridiculousness the dragon is prone to.

“Oh?” the stranger inquires, somehow sounding both suspicious and completely benign. The others around the circle turn their heads between the two in unison, some looking aggravated, as if this sort of tense exchange is a regular occurence. The stranger ignores Tom completely and addresses Harry, unconcerned for the tightening of Tom’s mouth. “Harry. The Prince of Hogwarts, are you not? My name is Albus Dumbledore— I’m the head of the Order of the Phoenix, and a close friend of your father’s.”

_ One hundred forty-four gold pieces in a bag_, Harry remembers. He stares back at Dumbledore, his curiosity now overwhelmed by firm dislike. _ This _ is the man who vanquished Grindelwald? He doesn’t look at all dangerous, but his attitude is enough to warn Harry away. Harry imagines him killing Voldemort, who has been so kind to Harry, and shudders, unconsciously curling closer to Voldemort for comfort. Dumbledore surreptitiously eyes Voldemort’s tightening grip.

The conversation moves along. Voldemort keeps a possessive hand draped over Harry’s shoulders while the people around the circle introduce themselves. Harry doesn’t memorize all of the new names, but a few stick out to him.

Harry’s glad Voldemort had spent so long describing magical folk before, as he would not have identified any of them otherwise. Fenrir Greyback’s amber eyes belie him as a werewolf. Greyback is as horrifically scarred as Harry is, except he wears the scars on his face with pride, and his savage, arrogant grin is oddly charming. The vampires next to him are thin and pale, with sharp smirks: the Lady Carmilla Sanguina and Count Vlad Drakul. There’s a veela, whose name Harry doesn’t catch under the tinkling bells of her voice, and a half-giant named Rubeus Hagrid, and a goblin petting a kneazle who declares that he also represents a number of other fantastical species. 

Mundungus Fletcher, whose robes are so dirty that they stain the fur beneath him, twitches restlessly towards a pile of gold coins. Sirius Black is supposed to be locked up in Azkaban. Alastor Moody has an electric blue eye that keeps whizzing to Harry’s forehead scar; Harry flattens his fringe self-consciously. He didn’t think it was that bad. He misses a few names. Bellatrix Black’s mad cackling brings him back to the present, and after her is—

“Molly Weasley.” Her hair is the exact same shade as Ron and Charlie and Fred and George’s. Harry keeps his face placid. The Chosen One has met her, but Harry the Dumb Prince has not.

“We gather today to address concerns from Hogwarts,” Voldemort rumbles when the introductions finish. Harry draws Voldemort’s cloak around himself as well and burrows into his side, hoping Voldemort’s charisma will distract the others from him. Unwittingly and unknowingly, he only draws more odd stares; he is a conspicuous lump despite his small size. “Ever since I was framed for the kidnapping of Harry Potter, the Prince of Hogwarts—”

“You mean to deny it?” Dumbledore interrupts. “The Prince is sitting at your side!”

(“_Cuddling _at your side,” somebody corrects with a snort. “I would hardly call that sitting.”)

“Breaking into Hogwarts’ keep would be the height of folly,” says Voldemort, derisive. “I found Harry in a snowstorm near my mountains. Whoever brought him there, it was not me.”

Harry tenses and draws back under the blatant scrutiny. Voldemort starts rubbing soothing circles into Harry’s bicep. Harry hides his disgruntled scowl— this is supposed to be his _ vacation_, his titles weren’t supposed to have followed him here.

“So you _ didn’t _decide to get the prophecy child early for us? It seems to have worked out well enough,” Greyback remarks.

“And the Chosen One?” Dumbledore persists. “Have you seen him? He was hired to rescue the Prince from you.”

“I have seen neither hide nor hair of him, if he even exists,” Voldemort says. Harry stifles a giggle; he’d told Voldemort all of it just a few days before. Voldemort must be getting a real kick out of this. “Tell me, does it not sound suspicious to you, that this mysterious figure who nobody has ever truly seen is so conveniently hired to chase after the Prince? They say the Chosen One struck a deal with _ Aragog_, the king of the acromantula, and that he befriended and released a hippogriff—” 

“Buckbeak,” the half-giant sniffs, and Harry suddenly recalls where he’s seen Hagrid before.

“—on its execution day. They say that he killed a troll and repelled twelve dementors at once. Impossible feats for one man— it is more likely that he is a combination of different people’s stories, bundled into one rumor. Sending an imaginary figure after the Prince is a death sentence to both; it is a banishment without decree, a most wily method of absolving the royals of blame for the loss of an infamously weak heir. And Lily is pregnant.”

The group muses on this. Harry bites his bottom lip so he doesn’t blurt out anything incriminating. His hands clench in the fabric surrounding him.

“That’s _ Queen _ Lily-Evans,” says Dumbledore, at last. “Your points are sound, but I trust my sources. Charlie Weasley claims to have personally met the Chosen One.” Startled, Harry looks up, right into Dumbledore’s eyes twinkling at him. _ He knows something. _ How?

Harry very nearly groans aloud. Hermione had revealed Harry’s name without a thought! Dumbledore winks, so he is keeping Harry’s secret, but who knows who else he told? Voldemort is fine, but— who else knows?

Voldemort pulls Harry closer, sensing his agitation. When he speaks, it is with repressed ire. “Believe what you like, you old coot. Chosen One or not, the fact remains that Hogwarts believes me to have attacked its royal family. The kingdom is once again being searched for magic, and the raids are really not as subtle as Potter thinks they are. It is another _ Purge._” The word is spat out.

“That’s _ King _ Potter,” Dumbledore sighs over the ensuing murmurs.

“So what do we do about it? Innocent people are being arrested and killed for no good reason,” says a young woman in the back, with a toss of her pink hair. “We can’t just sit around.”

“Tonks,” another man says, quelling her with a look. She refuses to be cowed.

“_Yo__u _ are all too pussy-footed. What did we do last time a Purge swept through, huh? Nothing! You sat around and twiddled your thumbs while my mama was executed and Remus escaped by the skin of his nose— literally!” She gestures expansively towards the man who had said her name, who does indeed have a blade-scar across the bridge of his nose among other claw marks. 

There are several indignant gasps at her crude language. Harry wonders if by standing by and doing nothing, he could be at blame for the death of Tonk’s family as much as any of the executors. The burnings he’d refused to watch— was that disrespectful? He’s never liked the screams.

“I agree with Tonks,” another speaks up, this time the goblin. Rangok? Rugnak? “We have the prophecy child now. Fate will let us succeed. It is time.”

“It is time,” Dumbledore agrees.

“We must not be hasty,” says Voldemort. “One mistake now will unravel years of work. And I will not allow Harry to come to harm.”

“Well, of course not,” says Molly Weasley, at the same time that Lucius Malfoy says, “But the prophecy—”

“Harry is mine,” Voldemort reiterates. “He will not come to harm. It is time, and I will go with him.”

Silence follows his declaration. Harry doesn’t bother to sign, just reaches up to tap Voldemort’s chin. When Voldemort looks down at him, their eyes meet, and Harry asks him _ Go where? I still haven’t heard the prophecy in full. I want to know what’s going on. I’ve been kept in the dark enough. _

Voldemort cups his cheek and strokes a thumb below his eye. “In time. We will be planning now; you can go. I will explain to you after.”

Harry clings tighter to Voldemort in response. Voldemort says, amused and fond, “Of course, you may also stay,” and Harry nuzzles his arm.

He dozes lightly for a while, the majority of the meeting far too tedious and detailed for him to attempt to understand. His stomach growls and his restlessness prompts him to start on dinner, a simple deer stew for the large group. He moves to a separate cave of the room and lights a fire out of sight of the others.

He hopes that it’s alright that he does his best to cater to species specifications, using a method Voldemort taught him to separate some layers of soup. Apparently the technique’s original purpose was for complicated Potions. Harry wraps the different levels in his magic to control temperature and flavor, losing himself to the task.

“So,” says somebody awkwardly behind him. He gasps and almost flings a ladleful of boiling liquid into their face, but quickly captures the spill with his magic. He deposits it back into the cauldron with some relief, then turns to the stranger, who is staring at him in shock. Oh, it’s Sirius Black.

“W- wandless magic— Prophecy Child—“ he stammers, and Harry is gathering too many titles here: the Dumb Prince, the Chosen One, Prophecy Child… Black slaps himself before Harry can stop him, a resounding smack that leaves a red mark on his forehead. Harry is surrounded by such dramatic people. “Your highness, pardon my crude tongue, it’s just— you’ve grown up so well!”

Harry is pretty sure that he’s never met this man before in his life.

Black gains momentum as he scrambles to talk. “You were the cutest baby. Just like James, but with Lily’s eyes! I was supposed to be your godfather, did you know...” He continues babbling along this vein for some time, seemingly self sufficient, so Harry continues with the stew.

Eventually, Voldemort, drawn by Harry’s quiet distress, rescues him. “The meeting is adjourned,” he cuts in, a reprimand if Harry has ever heard one. Black’s enthusiasm dims, but is still not completely smothered under Voldemort’s glare.

Although he’s a bit of a nervous wreck, and evidently insane from his stint in Azkaban, Harry admires his brash courage. He tugs Voldemort’s attention to himself.

Voldemort frowns, allows himself to be distracted from Black scurrying away. He inspects Harry’s expansion and layering charms on the cauldron. “Good,” he says after a taste, and his shoulders finally relax

_ You don’t seem to like the Order very much,_ Harry signs.

The corner of Voldemort’s mouth curls wryly. “Observant. You are correct; Dumbledore is an idealistic fool. But we both believe in magic, and the worth of its return, so working together is a necessity for now.”

Harry shrugs. He’s decided that he’s for anything that will stop the pointless executions and terror of being reported in Hogwarts is good. The wonder of magic shouldn’t be sullied like it is.

Voldemort avidly follows his movements as he serves the visiting group, which is now making small talk. “Prophecy child,” they call him, some more reverent than others. He still has to find out what that means.

Harry sloshes some burning stew onto Mundungus Fletcher by ‘accident’; the man should know better than to take dragon gold.

Molly Weasley is far too physically affectionate with him for someone he doesn’t know. He smiles weakly and escapes into the company of Sirius Black, who looks at him with a conflicted, constipated expression, like Harry’s just shat gold on his owl. Harry quickly excuses himself from that interaction as well.

Fenrir Greyback chokes on his first sip of soup. Harry wrings his hands anxiously, unaware of the murderous aura Voldemort has begun to emit behind him, as Greyback tentatively brings the bowl back up to his mouth.

“Your highness,” Greyback says finally, after a long swallow, more earnest than many of the group have ever seen him. “You have my undying loyalty. This is bloody delicious— seconds, please.” Harry beams and flutters happily back to the cauldron; Voldemort lingers a moment, eyes flashing in warning, before following.

Soon, Dumbledore’s attempts to talk alone with Harry grating on his nerves, Voldemort dismisses the group to the guest caves with a short “Report here in the morning” and drags Harry away before they can do anything stupid like get Harry attached to them.

Once Harry is bundled back into his cave, Voldemort does not leave for the night as he usually does, instead remaining wrapped around Harry. Harry doesn’t protest; with the strangers in the dragon’s domain, it feels safer with Voldemort near. Harry curls up on his side and Voldermort half-drapes over his cocoon of furs, a protective, comforting weight.

Harry lays limply for a while, processing the events of the day with his mind wide awake, then twists to meet Voldemort’s eyes, asks, _ Why did Dumbledore call you ‘Tom’? _ Voldemort’s face is startlingly close to his.

“My name,” says Voldemort, his breath ruffling Harry’s fringe, hot against Harry’s skin. Harry flushes and turns back around, curling closer. The rumbling of Voldemort’s chest echoes in Harry’s bones. “You may call me Tom. Voldemort is more of a title. Now, cease your infernal wiggling— you must rest.”

Harry droops obediently. _ Tom,_ he thinks, testing the name in his mind. He’s not sure that three letters can adequately encompass all that is the dragon surrounding him. Should he make a new name-sign for _ Tom _ as opposed to _ Voldemort_? At the moment, he just uses the ‘dragon’ sign for Voldemort, a claw lunging forward, because Voldemort is the only dragon in the vicinity of the kingdom.

… He can figure it out tomorrow. The cuddling blurs his thoughts with sheer contentment and he slips gently into unconsciousness.

**Hp Hp Hp**

In the morning, Harry is prodded at by two medics, one from the Order and one from Tom’s following.

“Scar cream,” Madame Pomphrey mutters. A half-second later, Professor Spleen says the exact same thing.

“Grey magical core, above average capacity, recently awakened,” Professor Spleen states. A half-second later, Madame Pomphrey says the exact same thing.

“Small size due to repression of magic during development,” Madame Pomphrey frowns. A half-second later, Professor Spleen says the _ exact same thing_. They studiously ignore each other and write their diagnoses on separate parchments.

Ridiculous. This whole rivalry is ridiculous. Tom and Dumbledore are both pro-magic, working together, so why is there such a rift?

Sometimes Harry wonders if he thinks differently than those who can speak.

Snape sweeps in, his black cloak billowing out behind him dramatically. “The Prince’s salve for the scarring,” he declares, setting a jar on a pile of gold, and swoops away again like a bat.

The salve, although welcome, leads to an awkward situation. Voldemort lasts a mere day before chasing his Death Eaters and the Order out into the nearby town, having become too agitated with so many people so near to his hoard— he’d actually almost roasted Mundungus Fletcher, the man with the sticky fingers. The meeting is still to last another fortnight, just in a nearby town instead of in the cave.

This leaves Harry and Voldemort— Tom— Harry still doesn’t really know what he should refer to the dragon as— alone in the cave whenever there are no meetings, like before. Unlike before, after Harry’s evening bath, he can’t find his normal clothes, only a bathrobe.

Tom sits a bewildered Harry down and opens the jar of Snape’s salve. Harry starts when the bathrobe is pulled off his shoulders to leave him bare. He immediately flushes and grabs it back.

Tom gently tugs the garment away. “I must apply your salve. I have noticed your pain— let me soothe it.”

Harry reluctantly lays down on his stomach with Tom’s guidance. He winces involuntarily at the first cool touch of salve-coated fingers, the temperature contrasting with the warmth of the cave. Soon, he relaxes into the soothing massage of his lower back and thighs, welcoming the numb relief that spreads across his scarring. He hadn’t known how much the aches had been bothering him until they were gone

After a time, Tom’s clinical rubbing turns into something more reverent. His fingers don’t leave Harry’s skin to dip into more salve any longer. The touches brush up Harry’s back, and when they reach his shoulder blades, Tom starts talking in a low rumble.

“So delicate.” There’s a warm weight engulfing his shoulders. Tom’s magic surges and envelops him. “Precious. My treasure. You have been so good for me.” Harry sighs, his eyelashes fluttering as his magic reaches out to entwine with Tom’s. Tom murmurs more sweet things while he slowly turns Harry onto his side and settles behind.

“Darling one. Your eyes are gems but all of you, together, is a masterpiece.” One large hand settles over Harry’s deceptively fragile-looking waist. The arm is heavy but Harry feels safe. There is no expectation in Tom’s touch. “You are cherished. I will care for you, hm?” A powerful thigh clamps over his, and now Tom is laying half on top of him. They normally cuddle with clothes on or through furs, but Harry finds that he likes the skin to skin contact.

Harry sinks into the reassuring feeling of being entirely surrounded, protected, warmed, and accidentally makes a tiny, pleased noise. With his vocal cords. 

He clamps a hand over his mouth. 

Tom tenses around him. “... What?”

Harry starts shivering. The last time he’d made a noise was— was— see, he’d always been unable to form words, but noises were always fair game, up until Dudley and his old guard beat it out of him. Noise meant pain. Noise meant the belt or the crop or the paddle. The more noise he made, the more they thrilled, so Harry learned to make no noise at all.

What did it mean for him, that Tom has dismantled all of his barriers in a mere few weeks? 

Dudley was bad, but Tom will be worse, because Tom has been so _ safe _ and it’ll feel like a betrayal even if Harry only deserves it.

Harry hears a whimpering sound and he discovers that it’s coming from himself. Tom has rolled him onto his back and straddles him, cupping his cheeks. His hands come away wet. Tom looks horrified and _ Harry is the cause of that_—

He loses it. He knows he’s hyperventilating— he can’t breathe, he’s crying tears hiccuping noise noise he can’t _ stop _ making the sounds pain 

His world blacks out.

**Tmr Tmr Tmr**

Tom stares down at Harry’s anguished expression, which is slowly easing. He’d panicked with the sleeping spell. Never mind that Harry can voice sound after all, _ what was that? _

Harry’s small hands are clutching Tom’s biceps so tightly that when Tom pries his fingers off, red nail-marks are left. 

Tom bundles Harry into thicker furs than usual, hoping that will help, and then stops, at a loss. Harry’s magic had gone completely haywire— the trinkets in the room are disheveled, to put it mildly, and Tom hadn’t been able to read, let alone fix, whatever was going on in Harry’s mind.

He is loathe to leave Harry, but the sleeping spell will last a few hours, and he is even more loathe for anyone else to see Harry vulnerable. So he stands, clothes himself with a slight exercise of will, and seeks Lucius' counsel.

**Hp Hp Hp**

Harry wakes up alone.

He’s still in the cave, with familiar, heavy furs over him and softness of golden hay under him. Where’s Voldemort? Tom?

His magic reaches out and recoils with the emptiness it finds. Memories rush back to Harry. He’d— oh.

No wonder Voldemort isn’t here. But why is _ Harry _ still here?

Maybe it’s already time to go. It’d been nice while it lasted. Harry reluctantly rolls out from under the furs to dress and pack. There’s not much to take. He’d been expecting this at some point; it just stings more because he hadn’t thought he would mess up so quickly. He weighs his bag of coin— _ one hundred forty-four _ and his own— and clips it to his belt. After deliberating, he takes the jar of salve with him as well, and uses the Chosen One’s cloak to bundle his things into a pack instead of wearing it— it can be conspicuous.

He slowly exits his cave, makes his way down the stairs, thanks the orb of light on the pedestal for Voldemort’s hospitality because the dragon himself isn’t there. At the main cave’s entrance, shivering in anticipation of the cold beyond, a weight against his chest makes itself known with a warm pulse of magic. 

The locket.

Harry hopes that Voldemort won’t mind if he takes this one thing with him. He couldn’t bear to part with it; it still feels safe.

He steps out into the howling wind, not bothering to put his hood up, and almost immediately, someone hails him.

“Harry!”

Cedric! What is he doing here?

“I’ll save you, Harry!” cries Cedric, brandishing his sword, shining in full armor. 

Oops. Harry had meant to mail him, but time had passed so quickly…

It is at that moment that Voldemort _ thuds _ onto the side of the mountain with a guttural roar, his wings stirring up a miniature snowstorm, his giant claws screeching against stone in haste. _ Stranger, _ he hisses, furious.

Oh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahahah (how angsty do y’all want it)


End file.
